


Hunger Pangs

by IceEckos12



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Set during season 4, Starvation, disorientation, jon's canon-typical levels of self-worth, jonmartin is implied but it's not the focus of the fic, more detailed warnings in the author's notes, not a ton of comfort tho, supernatural memory problems due to starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28343553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceEckos12/pseuds/IceEckos12
Summary: You haven’t even tried though, have you? You don’t…” Basira waves a hand. “Know.”Jon opens his mouth to argue—and then pauses. Helen comes to mind, and Georgie, and Annabelle Cane. There’s something there, nebulous and disjointed, about second chances and free will and humanity and being human.“Okay,” he whispers, pushing past the instinctive, alien repulsion, the simmering fear. “Okay.”Jon conducts an experiment.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 42
Kudos: 361





	Hunger Pangs

**Author's Note:**

> Got the idea for this at 3 in the morning and then spent the next two days writing it. PLEASE heed the tags and warnings, and let me know if ive forgotten to tag anything!
> 
> additional warnings: self-harm in the form of picking at nailbeds until they bleed, it's not explicitly stated but jon is passively suicidal, jon and the people around him see and treat him as a monster

There’s a knock at the door.

Jon looks up from the book he’s been reading, trying not to let his trepidation show on his face. He clears his throat, sets the book to one side, and then says, “Come in.”

As he’d expected it’s Daisy, brandishing a paper bag that smells faintly of spices—some sort of curry, he thinks. The small packet of papers in her hand is far, far more enticing though, and he tries not to let his eyes flicker to it too obviously.

“Brought you some vindaloo,” she tells him, quiet and even, as she sets the bag on the table. Then she waves the statement, as though it were an afterthought. “And this, obviously. I think it’s—hm. Not quite sure. Maybe the Vast, a bit of the Lonely.”

Jon nods, keeping his gaze carefully averted to the floor to keep her from seeing the hunger in his eyes. “Thank you.” He clears his throat again, twisting his fingers in his lap. “I—I appreciate it. You doing this, that is.”

He can’t see it, but he can feel the warmth in her gaze, the understanding. She knows better than anyone in the Archives what he’s going through, and that’s...a comforting thought. “Of course. You’d do the same for me.”

He nods, biting his lip.

Daisy hovers for a couple of seconds longer, shifting awkwardly on her skinny legs. She’s just as bad as he is when it comes to small talk though, so eventually she asks, with the air of one who’s hoping that the response will be no, “Need anything else?”

He immediately shakes his head. “No, thank you. I’ve got, you know, Netflix and Spotify and all that. And plenty of books.”

“Sure you don’t want me to download you some Archer’s episodes?”

Jon snorts, finally meeting her eyes. Her gaze lacks any modicum of judgement or recrimination, a quiet pillar of certainty and belief, and he’s so grateful for her presence that it almost takes his breath away.

“I’m quite sure,” he says dryly.

Her response is a small, faint smile. He grins back at her, nervous but determined.

* * *

_ “What if we tried weaning you off of them?” _

_ Jon looks up from his notes. He’s not surprised by Basira’s appearance in his doorway—he’d Known she was there—but he _ is  _ confused by the sudden non sequitur. He takes off his reading glasses and sets them on the desk beside him, folding his fingers delicately together. “I’m sorry?” _

_ “Statements,” Basira explains, eyes distant and thoughtful. “I was just—you being dependent on them seems too much like a liability. There’s a lot of ways that could be used against you—us. You.” _

_ “Oh.” Jon leans back in his chair. She’s—she’s not wrong (she seldom is). He still has memories of slowly wasting away in America, hundreds of miles from the Institute. It’d be nice not to be so dependent, but… “I don’t think that it works like that? I mean, it’s a good idea, but I, I think that I...need them. To...survive.” _

_ Basira raises her eyebrows, and just like that, he knows that she played this conversation out in her head before she even came into his office, anticipating his potential protests. “Daisy’s managing.” _

_ Jon frowns. Sure, one could say that Daisy’s  _ managing,  _ but she seems a little bit weaker, a little bit...less, every time he sees her. And more than that, he’s pretty sure that his situation and Daisy’s situation are very, very different. Jon spent six months in a coma before waking up tied to the Eye in such a complex, intrinsic way that he’s still not entirely sure of what it entails. The Buried ate Daisy up, all but severing her connection to the Hunt, and didn’t give her a way out. _

_ But, sure. Daisy’s managing. _

_ “I think our situations are a little bit different,” he says, folding the ends of his sleeves over his fingertips, agitated. _

_ “True,” Basira allows. “You haven’t even tried though, have you? You don’t…” she waves a hand. “Know.” _

_ Jon opens his mouth to argue—and then pauses. Helen comes to mind, and Georgie, and Annabelle Cain. There’s something there, nebulous and disjointed, about second chances and free will and humanity and being  _ human.  _ He finds his nail beds and starts picking, tearing at the dead skin. _

_ Basira, ever the chessmaster, senses the weakness and bears down. “Listen, if it really does seem like it’s killing you, then you can call it off. We’ll just...deal with it. But you won’t know until you try.” _

_ She’s right. She’s right, of course she is, why wouldn’t he want to try to become less monstrous? He hasn’t even tried, and hot shame reddens his face at the thought. He’s just been...assuming that he couldn’t. _

_ Something warm and sticky drips down his hand, smearing between his fingertips. The cut will heal over in a couple of seconds, though—it always does. _

_ “Okay,” he whispers, pushing past the instinctive, alien repulsion, the simmering fear. “Okay.” _

* * *

A day later, Daisy comes in with another bag of food and a statement. Jon pauses the documentary he’d been watching and sets his laptop aside, folding his hands into his sleeves to hide the tremble.

“Thai this time,” Daisy tells him. “Wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I got your usual. Should pair nicely with the, um—the Web. Pretty sure.”

Jon tries not to think too hard about the vindaloo from yesterday, which is normally his favorite. He’d only managed a couple of bites before his stomach had turned, and he’d put it in the mini-fridge, telling himself that he’d eat it later. “That’s perfect, thank you.”

She nods perfunctorily. She seems far less awkward, steadier now that she’s done this before and knows the expectations for their interactions. “Anything else I can get for you?”

“You, um…” he shifts, suddenly feeling shy, which is—ridiculous. They’re—they’re kind of, sort of friends in the way only two people who have had very similar, terrible experiences can be. “Would you like to stay and watch this documentary with me? You don’t have to stay long. Just for a bit.”

He’s technically not supposed to have anyone in here with him for too long—Basira had worried that hunger might erode his self control, and he might try to take a statement—but it’s not too bad yet. He can manage sitting next to his friend for an hour while they do silly imitations of the narrator’s voice.

Daisy blinks at him, surprise making her brown eyes go wide. Then she smiles shyly, giving him the barest glimpse of her white teeth. “Just—just for a bit.”

(He’s so, so relieved that she doesn’t notice how little of his pad kee mow that he eats. Later, after she’s left, he puts the container next to the vindaloo, and firmly makes a pact with himself to finish it later.

He will. He can...he can do this. He can be a person who eats full meals and doesn’t survive off of statements. He  _ can  _ be the sort of person that Georgie wants him to be, that Helen thinks he can’t.)

* * *

Things continue like this for a couple more days. Jon distracts himself from the constant hunger, the ever-encroaching weakness, by devouring show after show, book after book, podcast after podcast. He paces the floor like a caged animal, chewing his lips to bloody ribbons, forcing his fatigued limbs to continue to move. There’s a constant, dull ache at the bottom of his skull, that leaves him feeling strange and muddled.

(He feels—like he could lay down and never get up again. Rising at the beginning of each day gets just a little bit harder, a little more exhausting.)

There’s that familiar knock, and Jon immediately perks up at the thought of more sustenance, setting his book aside. Tucking his shaking hands into his sleeves has become habit by now. “Come in!”

His cheer fades a little when he realizes that it’s not Daisy, but he carefully tamps down on his disappointment. “Hello...B-Basira.”

(It’s felt like so long since he’s seen her that he almost forgets her name for just a second. Which is ridiculous, it’s only been...a little less than a week? Something like that.)

Basira politely ignores the momentary lapse, neatly arranging the paper bag and the recorder on the table. “Hello, Jon. Brought you some pizza, and one of Gertrude’s statements. Thought it might be good to vary your diet?”

“Oh!” Jon says, pleasantly surprised by her thoughtfulness. “I’m not sure that’s how it works, but thank you. I appreciate it.”

She nods absently, giving his room a keen onceover. He’s not sure what she’s looking for—except, he supposes that it’s a bit neater than usual. For lack of anything else to do, he’s been cleaning, reorganizing the small space he lives in 24/7. He’s been neglecting putting up some stuff—nothing special, just a couple of posters and some pictures from when he was in uni—

“Listen,” Basira begins heavily, snapping him out of his meandering train of thought. “We’re going to start doing one statement every other day. Is that okay?”

“Oh!” Jon curls inward a little bit, trying not to show how much the idea upsets him. If he’s capable of being weaned off of statements, this—the constant hunger pangs, the stark isolation—will get easier. He just has to...to bear it for a little while, even if the idea of becoming weaker, even if the idea of his already vicious stomach cramps growing worse, scares him half to death.

Martin, distant and fuzzy around the edges, appears in his mind’s eye. The sudden urge to speak with him is almost unbearable, and Jon closes his eyes against it, setting it aside with the rest of his cravings.

_ You can back out of this at any time,  _ he reminds himself.  _ You want this. You’re doing it to yourself. _ “Um...yeah, of course.”

“Good.” Basira nods shortly, sounding relieved that he hadn’t argued. “And—I don’t think it’s a good idea for Daisy to stay here for long periods of time any longer. Sorry, it’s just...dangerous.”

Jon’s nodding before she even finishes speaking; he’s been preparing himself for it so much that he hardly even feels the sting. They can text, after all. Call on the phone, that sort of thing. “Yeah, of course.”

“Good.” Her tone is satisfied. He thinks that she’s pleased that everything is going to plan so far. He almost laughs at the idea of her mentally checking another box off of her “ _ get rid of the monster”  _ list.

He wouldn’t be surprised if she  _ does  _ have one. Lists are very satisfying, after all.

* * *

Jon stares at the containers in the mini-fridge, frowning in consternation. He wishes that he’d put dates on them—he  _ always  _ forgets how old food is, and now is definitely no exception. He thinks that maybe—the pad kee mow might be oldest? Although it could be the curry. There’s thankfully less to keep track of, as he asked them to stop bringing regular food every day, since he always has leftovers.

He wouldn’t have bothered at all, except he’s so shaky and dizzy with hunger that it’s almost impossible for him to focus on anything else. It may not help, but he’s so desperate that he’s willing to try anything to take the edge off.

He takes the pad kee mow from the fridge, gives it an experimental sniff. He’s—he’s pretty sure none of this is old enough to have gone bad. He’s only been here for...what, a week? Definitely less than two weeks. He racks his fuzzy, useless brain for answers, but is only rewarded with a dull ache. The Eye is no help either; it’s been tetchily silent ever since he started his little rebellion. Which, fair.

He’ll have to remember to mark the containers with dates next time. He’ll have to remember to keep track of the  _ date  _ next time. It’s just...ever since the gap between each statement widened, he’s been having trouble keeping everything sorted in his mind.

It’s...it’s fine.  _ You can back out at any time,  _ he reminds himself.

(The assertion rings false, even in the privacy of his head. The reasons for why he initially chose to do this are so far away, so disconnected from his current existence, that they hardly have any meaning.)

He frowns, and eventually settles on the Thai, carrying it to the couch and curling protectively around it. For some reason, he can’t shake the feeling that someone’s going to come in and steal it from him, which is—absurd.

(He only gets three or four bites before he’s overcome by nausea and has to lie down.)

* * *

Jon is watching a documentary about plastic in the ocean.

It’s dark—he turns off the lights at precisely 10pm each night, just to remind himself that there’s a distinct difference between night and day, even in here—and it’s around one in the morning. He’d tried to go to bed at eleven, but his head is pounding and he feels too warm, almost feverish, and the hollow in his stomach is so hungry that he can’t ignore its ravenous screaming.

So he’s watching a documentary about plastic in the ocean.

There’s a turtle on the screen. It’s all tangled up in a plastic six-pack ring, but it’s swimming determinedly, defiantly, as though it doesn’t realize that it’s already dead. Jon’s sure he’s imagining the forlorn expression on the creature’s face; you can’t ascribe human emotions to inhuman things, after all.

The words of the narrator drone on in the background. Jon can’t parse the words, so he just lets the soothing monotony wash over him, pressing his burned hand against the gaping hollow in his chest.

* * *

There’s a knock at Jon’s door.

Jon shoves the book he’s been trying and failing to read to one side, too tired to even try and moderate what he knows is a pathetically, painfully hopeful expression. His legs feel about as useful as lead weights, and he nudges his feet forward, reminding himself that he’s not actually wearing weighted cuffs around his ankles. And there’s a headache pounding at his temple, but that’s nothing new. None of this is new.

“Come in,” he calls, curling his arms around his stomach, like that’ll be enough to disguise how thin he’s become.

It’s Daisy again, and he alternates between staring longingly at the statement in her hands and directing a tentative smile in her direction. It’s only decorum and the fact that he’d probably topple over if he got up too quickly that’s keeping him from jumping to get the statement from her.

She sets the paper bag on the table for striding over and handing him the statement. He takes it, unable to bite down on the relieved sigh that bleeds through his parted lips. He feels more exposed, more vulnerable than he ever has.

He doesn’t care.

There’s a gentle, tentative touch to his hair, and he instinctively flinches back. He looks up at Daisy, and she looks down at him, and there’s warm, gentle concern in her eyes. He clutches the statement closer.

(It’s getting harder and harder to remember that there’s a whole world outside of this room, that there are other people besides him and whoever brings him his meal that day.)

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks.

Jon studies her for a moment longer, before shuffling forward and tilting his chin down, a silent invitation. Even though he’s ready for it, he still shudders at the first light touch, the way she carefully cards his hair away from his face. He swallows against the lump in his throat, the hot burn behind his eyelids.

Daisy is so, so thin. If you lifted her shirt, you could count every single one of her ribs. Jon looks much the same, these days.

“Yes,” he whispers.

* * *

Jon stares at the unmarked curry container on the top shelf of the mini-fridge. Looks down at his phone screen, at the date that shines out at him. It’s blurry no matter how long he looks at it—and he has to keep looking down at it, because whenever he glances away for more than two seconds he forgets.

The other containers all have dates on them, except for this one. He’s not sure how long it’s been here. It’s—he’s—it’s probably still fine, right? He’s only been here for...for what, a week and a half? Two weeks? Less than two week, surely.

He frowns, rubbing at his eyelids. His headache is a monstrous, pounding thing, clamoring around the insides of his skull. It’s so hard to  _ think. _

Eventually, he puts the curry back on the shelf, and goes to lie down. Maybe he’ll feel better if he sleeps a little more.

* * *

“Are you willing to try taking a statement once every three days?”

That’s...that’s Daisy talking. Jon frowns and rubs at his eyes, trying to focus on the task at hand around the pain in his...everywhere. Stomach, head, hand. Whatever.

After a moment he says, “Sure.” Not really because he agrees with whatever he’s being told to do, but more because he’s too tired to argue. And Daisy is his friend, after all. Whatever it is, it can’t be too bad.

Daisy cards a gentle hand through his hair, and he leans into it, eyes fluttering shut. “Are you sure?” she asks. She sounds worried. He doesn’t want her to worry, even though he thinks he might do a lot of worrying things.

It’s so hard to think, though. Jon wants her to stay, because she’s his friend and he likes seeing her, and it’s been so long since he’s seen her, or anyone else for that matter. But he desperately wants her to leave too, because he’s so, so hungry and he just wants to read the statement and then sleep.

Everything hurts a little bit less when he’s asleep, even if the nightmares make him want to  _ scream. _

“Jon?”

He shakes himself, pulls back from her hand. “Yeah.”

“You have to be sure, Jon,” she presses.

He shies away, his happiness at seeing her briefly overshadowed by how firm, how grim she sounds. He doesn’t want a fight. He’s far, far too tired to put up any sort of fight. “Mhm.”

She scrutinizes him for what feels like far, far too long. He can’t hold her gaze for more than a couple of seconds before he has to let his eyes meander away. The feeling that he is very vulnerable, that he is exposing his weakness to someone he shouldn’t, refuses to go away.

Finally Daisy lets out a low, relenting sigh and looks away. “...fine.”

He relaxes, relieved that she’s not going to draw this out into a proper row. He just...really wants to read the statement and go to sleep.

* * *

Jon isn’t sure what day it is.

He is curled on a cot, and his laptop is open in front of him. He’s watching...something. There’s a turtle tangled in plastic limping miserably through the ocean. A beached whale lies on its side, and a moment later there’s an image of an enormous amount of trash. A seagull is covered in a glossy film of sticky oil, bobbing gently as the black waves roll in and out, in and out.

There’s a container of foul smelling curry on the top shelf of the mini-fridge, and no date mars the surface of the otherwise pristine container. When he looks at his phone, the screen is far, far too blurry to make out.

His head hurts. His stomach hurts. He hurts all the way down to his bones. He wishes the pain would stop.

(He thinks that he wants all of this to stop.)

* * *

There’s a knock at the door.

It’s very, very cold in the room. Even buried under three blankets and curled into a tight a ball as he can manage, he can’t seem to stop shivering. The thought of pushing upright, of acting like everything’s okay, sounds like a gargantuan effort, and he wants to shout for whoever it is to  _ go away.  _

The knock comes again, louder this time.

_ Statement,  _ he thinks, and a short, desperate breath escapes him, falling just short of a sob. The mere prospect of a little relief has him slowly unfurling, has him pulling himself into a hunched sitting position. The dizziness of the transition from horizontal to vertical combined with the persistent, vicious ache behind his eyes is almost overwhelming, and he closes his eyes and sinks into himself.

A third knock. “Jon?” an unfamiliar voice calls.

He hisses softly, cradling his face in his hand. “Come in.”

The door creaks open, but he doesn’t look up, just listens to the footsteps as they travel slowly across the room. Whoever it is will leave the statement and whatever human food they think will satisfy him (that never does) on the table and then go away, and maybe he’ll even be able to work up the energy to get up and read—

“Jesus,” the voice says, and Jon tenses uncertainly. He doesn’t recognize who it is, and he doesn’t like the idea of them staying any longer than necessary. “You look like shit.”

“Thank you for that...flattering assessment,” he says, snorting despite himself. And then he looks up, because if someone is going to exist in his little world for longer than a minute or so, he might as well see who it is.

She’s a short woman—or he  _ thinks  _ she’s short, he doesn’t really have much of a frame of reference. She’s dressed simply, in blue jeans and a black jacket, and there’s a strange, keen look in her eye, one that instinctively makes him want to shy away. It’s like she’s looking _ at  _ him, rather than through him, which reminds him of...something.

“Shit,” she breathes, her eyes wide. “Jon, are you okay?”

Jon shifts uncomfortably, pulling his sweater tighter about him. “Ah...yes, I’m—I’m okay, thank you.”

The woman frowns, then tilts her head back toward the ceiling with a frustrated sigh, like he’s being annoying on purpose. “Listen, I know I’m not Daisy or Martin, but...I still  _ care,  _ you know? For Georgie’s sake. She still asks about you, you know.”

Jon...doesn’t know, actually. He recognizes Daisy’s name, and  _ Martin  _ rings a distant bell in the back of his mind, but…

“Who?” Jon asks, too exhausted to attach any semblance of politeness to the query.

The woman pauses. Stares at him for a moment, face slack.

“That’s not funny,” she says, a wavering note of uncertainty in her voice.

His gaze flickers to the door, to the statement on the table, to the mix of open confusion and growing alarm on her face. He’s not sure who this woman is, and the act of taking this conversation any further sounds like it would take far more energy than it’s worth.

“Listen, whoever you are,” he rasps. “Thank you for the statement, but—”

“What the hell do you  _ mean,  _ whoever you are?” The woman’s voice rises in a shout, and he cringes away, his hands rising reflexively toward his ears. “It’s—it’s me, it’s  _ Melanie!” _

Jon shakes his head. Her anger, her intensity, is making him feel small, and he doesn’t know who she  _ is,  _ he doesn’t know why she’s  _ shouting  _ at him and all he wants to do is  _ sleep  _ and it  _ hurts it hurts it hurts— _

“Please stop,” he begs, finally giving into the urge to draw his knees into his chest, to press back against the wall, heart thundering in his mouth.  _ “Please.” _

And then, miraculously, she does.

She stares at him for a moment, eyes wild, still puffed up with emotion, like she’s not sure what to do with herself. Then she deflates, the tension unwinding from her shoulders, and rocks back onto her heels.

Jon blinks—

—and just like that, she’s gone.

...

(He wonders if he imagined the whole encounter, if his mind created the interaction to satisfy some niggling desire for any form of human contact. It wasn’t very nice, but most of Jon’s life doesn’t feel very nice right now.

The thought of it being fake is devastating. The thought of it being reality is somehow even more so.)

* * *

There is a hand in his hair.

His eyes flutter open, but his vision is a muddy, confusing jumble of shapes and colors, so he closes them again.

The hand pauses for just a moment, but restarts its rhythmic, soothing motions again when Jon lets out a plaintive noise. He sighs, quiet and content, burrowing back into the blankets.

What a wonderful dream.

* * *

For the first time in a very long time, Jon feels...warm. More than that, he feels  _ comfortable. _

He’s propped up against something solid, soft, and there’s a hand carding through his tresses, over his shoulders, down to the small of his back. It pauses there for a moment, pressing firmly but not unkindly, as though attempting to anchor him where gravity simply can’t anymore. Then it repeats the process, so gentle that Jon wants to weep.

And there is...a voice. It’s different from the tinny ramblings that are characteristic of a documentary, or Daisy’s gruff concern. It’s strangely familiar, and he frowns hazily, trying to place where he knows it.

Then he pauses.  His head doesn’t hurt. No, not just his head; for the first time in what feels like a very,  _ very  _ long time, he feels  _ full. _

He simply lies there for a moment, processing that, trying to reconcile his current situation with the condition he’s been in over the past few...weeks.  _ Weeks.  _ The dissonance is so strong that he’s not entirely sure—

“Jon?”

Jon is suddenly struck by the realization that: first of all, he is propped up on—practically  _ on top  _ of—a person, and second, that person is  _ Martin.  _ He reflects on how absolutely mortifying it’s going to be to look up and meet Martin’s eyes, and decides to pretend to be asleep for a little bit longer. Just until his face no longer feels hot enough to fry an egg on it.

(Just to savor this rare feeling of contentment, of comfort, for a few seconds longer.)

“Jon.” A pause. “I know you’re awake.”

He shakes his head and almost burrows in closer, before remembering that he’s  _ still curled against Martin’s chest. _

Oh, god.

Jon opens his eyes and sits upright, avoiding Martin’s gaze as he tries to shuffle backward. Key word on  _ tries,  _ because he’s immediately hit with an intense dizzy spell that has him swaying aimlessly. He hardly even notices when Martin sighs and guides Jon close again.

“Sorry,’” he whispers, and winces at the sound of his own harsh, wretched voice.

_ “Jon,”  _ Martin sighs, and he sounds so disappointed that Jon tastes bitter shame in the back of his throat. “You...you almost died.”

Jon’s mouth goes dry. He’s not—not entirely surprised by this information, but having it laid out in such candid terms feels like a kick to the chest. 

“Melanie came and told me what happened, and I—I came into the room, and you didn’t even know who I was,” Martin continues, voice rising with every word. “You just kept—you weren’t making any sense. You kept talking about plastic and, and, I had to give you a  _ statement,  _ and why didn’t you  _ text  _ me? Why didn’t you let me know it’d gotten this bad?”

“It—” he licks his lips, feeling strange and off-kilter in the face of Martin’s genuine distress. Then he freezes, his mind latching onto one thing. “You gave me a statement?”

“Of course I did!” Martin cries, exasperated.

Jon drops his forehead to Martin’s chest, curling his fingers in the thick fabric of his jumper, wishing for the strength to pull away. Martin’s been working with Peter Lukas, becoming more and more Lonely all for  _ their  _ sake, and Jon let this little experiment get so out of control that Martin had to—

Martin’s arm tightens around Jon’s shoulders. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it. I’m not going to apologize for saving your damn life.”

Jon grits his teeth. “You shouldn’t have had to do it at all.”

“You’re right,” Martin agrees coolly, even as he gently cradles the back of Jon’s head in his hand.

Jon was the one who said it in the first place, but the agreement still lands like a blow. Of...of course. Martin has better things to do than clean up Jon’s messes.

Jon pulls away again, eyes averted to the ground—but then there’s a hand under his chin, guiding his gaze up to Martin’s face. His eyes are warm and worried and, more than anything, kind. “I want you to stop  _ hurting yourself  _ because you think that you deserve it, or out of some...desire for  _ penance.  _ You should’ve told Basira or, or Daisy, the second it started to get that bad.”

“I wasn’t—” Jon shakes his head. “I...Basira was right, I’ve never tried to, to wean myself off of paper statements before. I knew it was going to get bad, it’s hard enough without being able to take statements directly from people—” Martin tenses, and he immediately backtracks. “No, I’m, I’m grateful for the intervention, I  _ am.  _ But it’s hard and, and I figured that the hunger and the, the pain would get worse before it got better.” He swallows, his voice petering out. “By the end I was so disoriented that I—I didn’t remember that I could make it stop.”

Sometime during his rambling explanation, Martin had taken his hand away and is now watching Jon, quietly sad, quietly knowing. Jon can only bear to hold his gaze for a couple of seconds before having to look away.

Martin’s throat clicks dryly as he swallows, and then he reaches out, cradling Jon’s burned, scarred hand in his palms. Jon’s chest tightens at how delicate the touch is, how kind, like he’s holding something precious. “I—I can’t protect you from yourself, Jon,” he whispers. “And I’m so scared that I’m going to, to come in one day and find out that you’ve finally— _ finally—” _

_ Oh no,  _ Jon thinks, staring blankly at Martin’s shiny, wet eyes.  _ Oh, fuck. _

But Martin doesn’t start crying. Instead he sniffs once, scrubs at his eyes, and then sits up straight, expression calm and resolved.

“I can’t make you care about yourself,” Martin says, “But—for my sake, please  _ try  _ to be kinder to yourself? Please.”

_ For my sake.  _ Jon’s voice sticks on the lump in his throat, so he only nods. He couldn’t argue, even if he wanted to.

Martin sighs quietly. “Good.” When Jon tentatively folds against him again, his only reaction is to curl a steadying arm over his shoulders. “Good.”


End file.
